A162
Ava and I — two queens in tiny tight shorts — decided to completely destroy my pathetic little bitch-boy today. He’s my doormat, my spit-toilet, my personal punching bag for humiliation. I love watching him break under us, trembling from shame and arousal at the same time.
Ava lies face-down on the bed, arching her perfect ass in those shorts. I straddle her back — my thighs gripping her waist, both of us looking down at this worthless scum on the leash. I yank the collar, dragging him closer.
“See Ava’s ass? — I whisper in his ear. — Maybe next time I’ll make you tongue-fuck her asshole clean… But today you’re not worthy. Today you suck her sweaty feet like the filthy whore you are.”
Ava stretches her legs, I shove his face into her soles — hot, salty, reeking of sweat after a full day in sneakers. He starts working eagerly: sucking each toe, licking between them, swallowing the salty taste. I keep the leash short, not letting him pull away, and begin mercilessly hawking spit right into his face.
Ptoo! Ptoo! Ptoo! Thick, long ropes of my divine saliva and clear phlegm fly nonstop — into eyes, nose, mouth, cheeks. Gallons of my spit drip down his face, soak his hair, fill his ears. He’s choking, but keeps licking — I see his cock twitching, he’s seconds from cumming just from our degradation.
“Ptoo, scum! Lick better! Deeper between the toes! Haha, look Ava, he’s about to explode from our spit!”
Then I sit full weight on his neck — head pinned to the floor, he can barely breathe. Ava starts shoving her feet down his throat — deep, triggering gag reflex. We both lean in and hawk in sync: thick globs into his mouth, eyes, nostrils. His entire face, hair, even ears — one dripping mask of our saliva and phlegm. He gurgles, tears streaming, but we just laugh louder.